


Koala Slippers

by captain_emmajones



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Im tired, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:54:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7247449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_emmajones/pseuds/captain_emmajones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For @once-uponacaptain (thanks bb) who requested : Neighbor AU " Why are you crying in the hallway?? Are you okay?? Let’s go to my place, I have ice cream and Netflix"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Koala Slippers

“Yeah, Liam, I have to hang up, my show is about to start. Have a lovely date with Elsa, see you tomorrow.” And with that, Killian puts down his phone on the table in front of him and falls flat on his couch.

“Favourite part of the day,” he mumbles to himself, a little smile on his lips.

He reaches for the control and is about to hit the switch on button but then-

“What the bloody hell is that?”

Frowning, he stands back up and concentrates himself on the sound he perceives.

Wait a second, he thinks, realization hitting him.

Someone is crying in the corridor, and it’s an ugly kind of crying. The kind where he’s almost sure that girl, because from the shaking voice he hears it’s a lass, is barely managing to breathe.

It’s none of your business, grumbles a part of him.

He stands up anyway, jaw clenched. He has to make sure that person is safe. This is only his civic duty.

Always following the rules, mocks Liam’s voice in his head.

Grabbing his keys, he eyes his clothes with a disapproving look; he’s only wearing his flannel boxer shorts and a white t-shirt decorating with an inscription : man’s lasses. A gift of Liam’s, obviously.

Sighing, he rushes anyway towards his door. He closes it gently, not wanting to alarm more neighbors, and turns around.

The spectacle he is offered then makes his stomach twist.

“Bloody hell.”

Indeed, a woman is sitting against the door in front of his own flat, knees pressed to her chest and chin down, wearing what he assumes to be a party dress. 

She’s visibly completely distraught : eyes red, stains of mascara devouring her cheeks, and her blond hair is messed up, loose strands falling in front of her face.

As he had guessed earlier, terrible cries are shaking her frail body and she seems completely unaware of his presence.

“Love,” he calls her softly as he makes his way towards her, quiet as possible because freaking her out is the last thing he wants to do.

He has never seen her before, but from the keys she’s clutching in her hands, phalanges white from the pressure, he assumes she must live in this building.

She keeps babbling nonsense, words escaping her dry mouth in between sobs.

“Hey, princess, look at me.” he says again, trying to catch her attention.

Taking one more careful step towards her, he kneels down in front of her and his weary eyes falls on her distressed face.

She’s stinking of alcohol.

“Lass, can you hear me?” And with those last words, he grabs her hand.

He catches her attention with his gesture, her empty green eyes considering him, and he’s already relieved that he hasn’t scared her to death.

She’s trying to recognize his features, he gathers, her gaze incertain on his face, the line of her brows contrasting with the paleness of her look.

And then her voice, husky, groggy with alcohol. “You’re not Neal.”

And by the tone of her voice, he can tell it’s a good thing.

He offers her a smile then. “No, love. My name is Killian. What’s yours?”

He waits for her answer, not expecting her features to break again in an awful sob, her tiny hands covering her eyes.

“You’re not him,” she repeats, desperation evident in her words.

Unsettled, he stares at her. Whoever that bastard might be, he has certainly broken her heart.

His jaw clenched, a surprising angriness blocks his throat.

“Listen love,” he starts, a hand reaching for her shoulder. “I’m going to take care of you until you’re sober. It’s too dangerous here.”

He fears her resistance, but as he passes one arm underneath her knees and leans her head against his shoulder, she doesn’t protest.

She weighs nothing.

Against all odds, she seems to be soothed by the warmth of his embrace, and slowly the whimpering disappears.

“Careful love,” he indicates as he tries to pass the door with her boneless body, “you really don’t want to hurt that head of yours.”

Gazing at her, he’s not really sure if the weak smile on her chapped lips is directed at him or at some memories of that Neal.

It’s a terrible vision, to be honest.

Lips spread in a senseless movement, salty pearls still hurtling down her face, and the void in her eyes.

His heart aches for the stranger.

“I’m so sorry for you, love.” he murmurs as he carries her to his room.

He’ll sleep on his couch, he has a show to catch up anyway, he thinks to himself, knowing very well his attention will be devoted to the broken princess.

He pushes the wooden door, and he finds out her silence is even more frightening that her sobbing words.

Gently, he shifts her in his arms so that more weight is on his left arm, and with his other hand he reaches for the cover. He pulls the sheets at the end of the bed, and thanks himself for having changed them this morning.

“You’ll be just fine here, love. Nobody can hurt you.”

His voice is unconsciously a whisper, a soothing one he hopes.

Slowly, he looses his hold on her and proceeds to lay her body on the crème sheets. However, he doesn’t expect her to firmly grab his hand.

Between heavy eyelashes, she seems to look straight into his soul.

“Thank you.” she murmurs, and she gives him a wrenching smile.

Forcing a grin onto his face, his hand brushes her cheek as he covers her body.

“You’re welcome, princess. Now sleep.”

He leaves painkillers on his nightstand, a glass of water, and a simple note to her.

Good morning, love, my name is Killian. I’m probably your neighbor and I found you in the hall last night crying. I took the responsibility of keep you safe. I hope you will understand. You are currently in my bed, but do not worry, I’m a man of honor and I’d rather go blind than consider taking advantage of the situation.

Those painkillers are for your headache. When you’re ready, you’ll find me in the living room: follow the corridor and you can’t miss it (anyway, our flats are probably designed the same way).

Your slightly worried probable neighbor,

Killian Jones.

He keeps it formal, doesn’t mention her state of inebriation, neither her confused words. He hopes she won’t be freaked out by his initiative.

A ray of sunshine falls on her closed eyelids, which only makes her groan and bury her face deeper in her pillow. She doesn’t remember buying a lavender soap but through the blurriness of sleeping, she thanks herself.

Wait, she doesn’t like lavender.

Her eyes snap open, headache striking her in a second, and she feels fear crippling in each one of her cells.

What the fuck have you done, Emma Swan ?

Her panicked gaze stares at the room she absolutely doesn’t recognize, the blue walls foreign, and everything is so clean, oh god, she wants to vomit.

“Where the fuck am I?”

She eyes the lipstick marks on her hands, pulling the soft blanket off her body, notices she’s still wearing her dress, thank you, Jesus, and sees the objects at her attention on the nightstand.

The only things she remembers is her deciding to go party last night, and Ruby leaving with Mulan way before her, and she had kept on drinking until- Oh, that’s the part she doesn’t remember.

“You are a worthless piece of shit, Emma Swan,” she mumbles to herself before reading the piece of paper neatly folded.

Relief fills her heart slowly, hands shaking around the letters, infinite reconnaissance invading her.

She bites her lower lips and- come on Emma, don’t cry.

Oh but she can’t hold back that one traitor, chin shaking as she realizes just how fucking lucky she was to stumble upon him.

Her foreign neighbor seems to restore the little faith in humanity she possesses.

He’s put her high heels against the wall and the attention somehow warms her heart.

She finds him, just like he said, on his couch, watching some dumb tv morning program, and her hand rests on the wall.

His back is facing her and he’s wearing a simple white shirt. He’s eating miel pops, and she wonders if all of the world’s goodness went to him.

“Killian,” her own voice surprises her, rest of alcohol making it huskier.

Her own words surprise her too; since when do you call stranger by their names, Emma ?

He turns around, blue eyes meeting hers, and she can’t help herself but find him attractive.

Which only makes her throat tighter and her grip on her keys firmaer.

“Thank you for last night.” She doesn’t mean for her voice to sound so harsh, but it’s instinctive.

If there’s one thing she has learned the harsh way, it’s that no one will take care of you without wanting something in return.

Plus there’s the fact that she’s fucking ashamed of her attitude.

“It’s okay, love, you don’t-”

“Great, have a good day.” And with that she’s gone, grabbing her shoes and slamming the door behind her.

Heart beating infuriatingly fast, she breathes in deeply. It’s okay, Emma, you made it out safely.

A knock on his door catches him off guard.

To say he’s surprised to catch his neighbor’s eyes again after her attitude this morning is the greatest understatement of the year.

He doesn’t recognize her at first, his mind difficulty making the connection between the woman wrecked in her pretty dress and the effortless beauty in front of him.

She has tied her hair in a loose ponytail and long eyelashes encircle beautiful green eyes, and she has the most adorable freckles on her nose, and yes, she’s a bit more than bloody pretty in her pullover and blue jeans.

“I came to apologize.” she stutters then, and he can’t hold back the sweet heat in his chest. “You took care of me, and I didn’t, I mean, I never intended on treating you like shit afterwards.”

Her struggle is evident, her eyes never meeting his, hands nervously joined together.

“It’s okay, love.” he says again, and he means it. “You don’t owe me anything.”

His words make her stop, he gathers, her gaze examining him, searching for the truth, and he swears he sees relief pass.

“You probably deserve an explanation,” she states and he firmly shakes his head in answer.

“You don’t have to, love.”

She hops up and down in her koala slippers, swallowing hard.

“Yeah, but you probably really deserve to though.”

She needs to talk, he realizes.

“If you insist, perhaps you could come in so we can discuss around a coffee your terrible dealing habits?” he exclaims lightly, and he can see she’s still on the fense.

She takes a few seconds to consider his offer before slowly sighing.

“Yeah; after all, I know for a fact you’re not a sociopath.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I’m glad I didn’t give you that impression. I was a tad afraid about it.”

He’s surprised to catch a genuine smile on her lips.

She’s sitting on a chair at his table in his greyish kitchen (he’s very proud of it), and she has her thin hands around a hot cocoa mug. He’s terribly charmed to be bloody honest.

“I’ve been living in this building for about two years now,” she tells him, tone distant and yet she has this little sparkle in her eyes he can’t explain.

A little bit to tell him she would trust him if she could.

“Really ? I’ve never seen you around.”

She smiles then, something that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, makes them cloudier instead.

“Yeah, I work during night time, which means that I should be sleeping right now,” she mumbles, eyeing her clock.

He immediately feels responsible. “Blood hell, I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“No no, don’t worry, it’s okay. I don’t work tomorrow.”

He can tell she’s lying. He lets her.

“By the way,” he starts, one hand pointing at her, “you’re sitting in my kitchen and I still don’t know your name.”

She gazes at him longingly, mouth slightly open, trying to know if she can trust him.

(He’s suddenly taken hold by the desire to know who had treated her this badly to make her so afraid of other people.)

“I’m Emma. Emma Swan.” she eventually affirms, one hand replacing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Emma,” he repeats, and he’s probably grinning like a fool.

They speak for a long time, perhaps an hour or two, him trying to get to know her, and she trying to share the smallest bits of information possible.

She’s a challenge. He already likes her.

When the sky gets darker and he has to switch on the lights, she finally explains the reason why she was so wrecked yesterday.

“I-, I have a son,” she wavers, voice hesitant, like she’s not quite certain of his best intentions, but she keeps going. It’s already big, he gathers. “His name is Henry.” Her face lightens up as she talks about her little lad, eyes sparkling. “He’s five years old but he’s already so smart.”

He listens, on hand beneath his chin, a light smile on his features.

He loves how she loses herself in her love for her lad; one look at her and you could tell he’s her everything.

“Henry’s great, but, lately, his dad has been trying to see him.” Neal, he understands. “And obviously,” the subject clearly upsets her, her phalanges turning white around the cup, eyebrows furrowed, “he expects me to be completely okay with the fact that he gets to see his son whenever the fuck- oh, I’m sorry- he wants but it’s not.”

Something deeper is missing, he can tell. She’s avoiding a the biggest part of the iceberg. He doesn’t push her; who is he to claim to know her ?

“And I’m just...I don’t want Henry to be hurt by him like he hurt me.”

She’s trying her best to keep a straight face but her hands are shaking and he instinctively reaches out, without realizing what he’s doing. Against all odds, as he stares at his gesture, the softness of her palms in his, she doesn’t push him away.

Instead, she lets him give her some courage.

The words seem to be at the very edges of her mouth, ready to burst out and reveal the truth, but she’s holding back, and the only thing he can do is smile.

It’s okay, Swan. You’re going to be okay.

Eventually, she gives in. “He wasn’t there, you know.”

Oh. Does he know.

Throat tight, he watches as this fury of a woman lets go of one of his hand to stop a tear at the corner of her eye.

“He wasn’t there when I had Henry and now he’s back, and he’s acting like he has a right to him.” Anger is evident in her voice, and he can almost see all those years of loneliness. “He was too scared to be a father, and now that he feels ready, I’m supposed to welcome him with open arms? What kind of sick joke is this?”

He lets go of her hand then, and as he stands up, he can see the discomfort on her face.

“Would you mind, Swan, if I dared to hug you ?” he asks as he faces her, arms open.

He doesn’t really expects her to say yes, just articulates the words so she knows he can offer her support.

“You’re really a strange guy.” she murmurs, and he’s not quite sure of her tone.

He grins. “Oh, don’t I know that.”

And with that she stands up, gazes at him, smiling, and rests her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as she breathes in his scent. Reverently, he gently holds her, one hand stroking her back, the other chastely placed on her waist band.

“This is a one time thing, by the way.” she murmurs in the crook of his neck, her tiny hand pressing him closer to her.

“As you wish.”

He figures out she goes to work at 10 pm: he stumbles on her with his bag of trash one night.

He had been smiling, all teeth out; her, not so much. (He saw the blush on her cheeks, that’s all that matters.)

Strangely he gets the habit of getting out his trash at 10 pm.

“What a lovely coincidence, Swan.”

“It’s no coincidence, Killian,” she usually smiles, shaking her head at his ridiculousness. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Bloody hell, you’re way too clever for me, love.” he winks, teasing her.

He meets Henry on a Wednesday afternoon, Liam at his side, in a toddler park.

The little boy is playing in the slide, and Emma is next to him, arms outstretched to protect her child, the most beautiful smile spread on her smile.

He has never seen her like that, happy, and bloody hell, is she beautiful.

“Why are you looking at this mother like she hangs the stars in the sky?” mocks Liam next to him.

He rolls his eyes, coming to greet her instead, his steps sure despite the anxiousness of his heart.

“Hello, Swan !”

He swears she smiles harder when she sees him.

“And you must be Henry,” he exclaims as the little lad considers him with his pretty brown eyes.

Henry falls in love with him in the blink of an eye. (Killian falls in love with him even faster.)

Emma is slower to the conclusion. Emma is on some days light and love itself, and on some others distance and the coldness of a shitty winter day.

And he falls hopelessly in love, yearning for just a glance.

There’s a knock on his door, and to his surprise he sees her standing there in a little black dress.

“I’m inviting you over for a date.” she simply states, visibly absolutely not concerned about the fact that it’s 10 pm and he has his bag of trash in his hand.

He decides not to test his luck and follows her into her flat, jogging pants and white t-shirt on.

They drink French red wine and they eat cannelloni, and everything is right on Earth.

As he had guessed, her apartment is the exact same as his own, but messier. He likes that part of her.

“And then, Liam decided I wasn’t worth the saving and left me in that bloody tree.”

And she’s laughing, and he’s not quite sure he has ever heard anything more beautiful in his whole bloody life.

And then she’s looking at him through her heavy eyelashes, all charms out, long legs crossed, biting inadvertently her lips, and he’s completely mesmerized and he couldn’t care less.

“I really, bloody, want to kiss you right now.” he murmurs as she takes a sip of wine.

A wicked grin breaks her features and she licks her mouth.

“Hmm ? And ? Try : you’ll see if I punch you in the face.”

He bites his own lower lips, oh what an enchantress.

And stands back up, reaching for her lips at the other side of the table.

A few centimeters away from her cheeky grin, he swallows hard before gazing directly into the deep green of her eyes.

His heart stops.

“If you weren’t you, I’d probably tell you that I’m in l-”

A thin finger pressed to his lips.

“Shhh, you’re right. I’m me,” she cuts him, her hand sliding down his face to cradle his jaw. “Now kiss me before I regret this.”

“If the lady insists.”

And with that he presses his mouth on hers, palms cupping her cheeks, breathing in her. He relishes in the softness of her skin underneath his fingers, the way her lips spread open and welcome his tongue hungrily, or the ardent pressure of her fingers on his jaw.

Rapidly uncomfortable, a wooden table in the stomach isn’t doing him much good mind you, he breaks the kiss and he’s incredibly worried that she’s going to ask him to leave right now.

Thus, when she stands up, he’s already writing his heart’s eulogy.

Instead, sees her going straight to him and sit on his bloody lap, breath definitely stolen.

Insolent gaze, she takes possession of his mouth again, her tongue finding his in an instant, and he can not hold back a moan. She chuckles as she gives up his swollen lips, traces instead the line of his jaw, his Adam’s apple, fingers finding the tip of t-shirt and helping him getting rid of it.

As she eyes his naked torso, he suddenly feels awfully vulnerable.

“Seeing anything you like, Swan?” he smirks to recompose himself, hands grabbing her tights.

“Hmm,” she hums before placing a wet kiss on his shoulder. “Do you ever shut up ?”

That one makes him laugh as he feels himself becoming hard.

“Why would I? I have a bloody gorgeous voice.”

She looks up to him then, smiling, and he’s absolutely wrecked by the pink tint of her cheeks.

“Point taken.”

She comes to suck the skin of his neck, hands travelling his back as he pulls up her dress to palm her arse. A sublime one, by the way.

“You’re wearing way too many clothes,” he notices, voice husky.

She clearly gets the message, taking off her dress with his assistance to reveal black lacy undergarments. Without giving him a second to inhale, she unclips her bra and throws it behind him, a machiavellistic grin on her pretty face.

“Better?”

“Definitely,” he murmurs as his hands grab her waist, pulling her towards him.

He then proceeds to passionately kiss her collarbone, sliding down her skin to find the curve of her breasts. She’s the one this time who moans, and he’s so bloody proud of himself.

Her hands grasp on his tousled hair as he plays with her nipples.

“Killian,” she calls him, and he loves how his name sounds in the fever of pleasure.

“Hmm ?” he answers, lips concentrated onto her second breast.

“Stand up.”

Bloody hell, that woman knows how to turn him on.

He obeys, lifting himself as she jumps aside, and his eyes fall on the very clear erection stretching his pants.

“Undress yourself, Killian.”

He swallows hard, the gleam in her eyes intoxicating, and obeys her once again. Before he knows it, she’s sliding down her panties along her terribly long legs and breathing seems like such an abstract concept.

“Sit down.” she orders again, but her voice is weaker, and he can tell she’s as aroused as he is.

Doing as she tells, his naked arse finds the coldness of the chair, but he’s quickly captivated by the very naked body who presses itself against his.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, a wet whisper along her jaw as she slides her wet core against his own hardness, his cock imprisoned between them.

Her movements are slow and sensual, and his breath is so uncertain, and she’s kissing him again and he can’t think anymore.

The last thing he knows is that she’s taking him completely inside her, and he’s holding onto her skin for dear life.

As she cleans the dishes and he dresses himself up, the tension between them is palpable.

“Swan?” His tone is unsure.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t offer a look. His heart sinks.

“Was this a one time thing?”

He waits for her answer, throat tight. Stares almost angrily at the loose blond waves.

“No.” A word, him realizing he has been holding his breath.

Finally, she turns around, drying her hands on a towel, and the look on her face is a full of struggle.

“I-, I care about you, Killian. I really do.”

Her confession doesn’t lighten up his heart, makes it heavier, because he knows there’s a “but” somewhere.

“I need time.” she eventually admits. “But, I don’t want you to think that this,” she points out at the room and them, “that this was me using you and your feelings.”

She takes a step towards him then, grabs his hand, a small smile on her lips, and much like three months ago, she rests her head on his shoulder.

“I care about you.” she whispers in the crook of his neck, and he can not help himself but hold her body against his, burying his own face in her hair.

It’s a warm Monday of June, and the wind is playing with his hair. Standing next to the others parents outside the school, he waits.

The swarm of children slowly washes over him, and he’s feeling the slightest bit overwhelmed as he searches for the brown eyes.

“Killian!” finally exclaims a small voice, and he’s glad.

Little Henry rushes towards him, a bright smile on his small face, a bag so much bigger than him resting on his shoulders.

“Hello lad, how was your day?” Killian inquires as he lifts the boy, settling him in his arms.

“Great! We made paintings!”

“Ah, I see that,” he chuckles, eyeing the red stain on his chubby cheek. “Now, let’s go home, shall we, lad?”

And with that, he puts him down on his tiny feet and grabs his hand. “Mom is waiting at home.”

“Oh, did the baby arrive yet ?”

Killian laughs. ( a tiny bit to hide the fact that he’s bloody afraid to be a father.)

“Not yet, lad. Mom has two months to go.”


End file.
